Mondays are rounds at Shepherd. My attending neurosurgeon, Dr. Murray, comes into each room on the SCI floor at 8am to review progress, ask questions, answer questions, and tailor our medical care for the upcoming week. He is accompanied by whichever resident happens to be doing his neuro rotation with us at the time.

My first Monday at Shepherd, I meet the current resident at 5am, when he waltzes into my room and wakes me up to get a pre-rounds update on my progress. He is a walking, talking god-complex – a pathology common to surgeons, but particularly acute in neurosurgeons.

The following Monday, he appears in my room at 5am once again, and dispassionately asks for my weekly update. I give him the current information, and then ask, “Rounds are at 8, right? Do you have to come in quite so early?”

I’ve gotten the lay of the land in the last week and a half. I know that, once I am awoken, I have a solid ten hours ahead of physical therapy, occupational therapy, psych therapy, group therapy, music therapy, art therapy, educational classes, and the extreme sport of just bathing and dressing. It’s beyond exhausting.

“Ms. Stowe, I have to get updates on every patient on this floor before rounds. You’re not the only one I see. I go in a circle, and your room is the first I come to.”

“Dude, it’s hard enough to sleep in this place. Do I have to be first every week?”

“Ms. Stowe, I know it’s unpleasant, but it’s necessary.” You don’t know jack shit about unpleasant, man.

I lived with Rob through med school and residency. I know the drill. A resident’s job is to look as knowledgeable and impressive as possible in front of the attending physician and, for that, he needs my information. But my job is to survive and, for that, I need sleep.

The next Monday, as promised, he appears at the foot of my bed at 5am. “Ms. Stowe, can I get an update on your progress?”

“Yeah…” I sigh. “It’s been a slow week. No real progress to speak of.” And he leaves the room.

Around 8am, he and Dr. Murray come into my room, and do the perfunctory summing me up in 20 words or less. The resident then states, “The patient reports no real progress over the last week…”

I interrupt. “Ummm…no,” and give the resident a quizzical look, before I turn my eyes to Dr. Murray. “I’ve actually had quite a bit of progress this week.” And I outline it for him.

The resident forces a smile and says, “Ms. Stowe, you didn’t tell me any of that.”

“Hmmm…I don’t know. Maybe you have me confused with one of the other patients on this floor. I mean, we both know I’m not the only patient you see.” I give him a “how incredibly embarrassing for you” smile.

Within 30 minutes, as I’d hoped, he ducks back into my room. “What was that?” he half barks, half whispers. “You told me you didn’t have any progress.”

“Yep, sure did,” I reply. “You start coming to my room last, and I’ll give you all the information you want and more. You’ll look like a star. You show up at my bed at 5am again, I’ll feed you 80% lies, and you won’t know which 20% is true.”

The following Monday, and every Monday thereafter, he woke me up at seven.